Between Allies and Enemies
by Murkatroyd
Summary: OneShot. Sequel to A Morbid Riddle. A brief look at the adult Voldemort's thoughts as he returned to Hogwarts in nineteen fifty-five to meet with Albus Dumbledore. Contains scenes from Book 6.


Author's Note: If used, letters, thoughts, Parseltongue, and some other forms of writing in this story will be written in Italics. On the rare occasion, bolded writing will be used.

Disclaimer: Mme. Joanne Rowling owns the series as a whole, and I own the fanfic-made and self-created modifications in this story in particular. I take no claim over the Harry Potter series. Any review or feedback accusing me of plagiarism will be automatically deleted. You will be given credit where credit is due, rest assured.

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**Story:**_ Between Allies and Enemies_

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A dark smile passed over the face of Lord Voldemort as he walked up the path between Hogsmeade village and Hogwarts castle, his bloodshot hazel eyes focused on the castle looming ahead of him in the distance. Though the castle itself was a good twenty minutes of walking away from the village, it was so large that it could be seen in nearly perfect view from Hogsmeade.

Voldemort cared nothing for the details. It had been a little over ten years since he had been to this castle, since he had been known in the eye of the world. Back then, everyone had known him as the popularly handsome Tom Riddle, top of all his classes and Head Boy in his final year, having won various awards for services to the school. Now, however, it was unknown as to where he had been for so long. Only a few wizards knew that he had been abroad, away from Britain in his quest to learn more about the branches of magic that had enthralled him in his childhood, and still interested him now.

Much had changed since then. He was now immortal, or as close to immortal as he thought possible. The fact now was that death was impossible to him after creating four Horcruxes. What he had never imagined possible was his strength increasing with the splitting of his soul, which he had split five times now. The cup, diadem, locket, ring and diary now each housed a portion of his soul. He idly wondered if it was worth the risk of killing Albus Dumbledore in his own office to set the stage for the creation of a possible sixth Horcrux, but he knew it would not work. For one, Dumbledore was too magically powerful for him to beat at the moment, and he knew it, despite the fact that it bothered him to know and pained him to admit to himself. Secondly, he knew that he would not get away with it.

He knew that Albus Dumbledore was now the Headmaster of Hogwarts school. Rosier had told him so, having found out through the vine of gossip that lined the wizarding world. Voldemort knew that it would be difficult to request of him what Armando Dippet had politely delayed ten years before, but he knew it would be worth it to attempt the request. After all, working as a professor in the legendary Hogwarts castle would bring his ideals of magic more merit. They were Dark, for sure, but they would not be as frowned upon by the world. While he did not like entrusting information with others, or even being a known source, it would help in his quest to bring forth the teachings that he wished to deliver.

The fact that he would likely be addressed as "Professor Riddle" was only a small detail to him, one that he would have to ignore.

He had long ago scrapped his Muggle given name. He wanted nothing to do with the name "Tom Riddle" ever again. When he had arrived at Hogwarts so many years ago as a first-year, he had searched for months for any information on his father, as he had not believed that his mother would die if she was a witch. After three months of relentless searching, no results had been yielded. He had finally been forced to accept that his father was a Muggle. From that point on, up until his fifth year at Hogwarts, he had abandoned his name and forced those of his age level to call him by "Marvolo". During his fifth year, he had created the persona that he had used for so long now, using the letters of his full name. Up until they had learned to not call him by name but rather by "the Dark Lord", his followers and henchmen had called him Voldemort. He thought it was ironic. The letters in his name, when reversed, gave him a name to represent that which he was fighting in the first place: the prevention of death.

He could not die, but he was not fool enough to believe that others could not. He had long ago learned that unless certain steps were taken, no one could escape Death forever.

His smile darkened even further as he fingered the diadem in his robes' pocket. This brief trip to Hogwarts would not have only one benefit. On top of being able to chance becoming the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, he would also have a chance to hide his newest Horcrux, giving it the most powerful defense yet. He smirked as he thought back on the previous locations used.

The ring had been placed in the old Gaunt cottage where it belonged, with a powerful curse put on it that would sap the life out of whoever wore it. That way if a situation arose where it was discovered, most likely by Horace Slughorn as he alone knew that Voldemort knew about Horcruxes, they would be killed within hours. He hoped that the situation never came. The curse would only apply to the first person to wear it, and he liked Horace Slughorn . . . to a fault. He had no compassion or feelings toward his former Head of House, but he did respect the man greatly, despite using him on several occasions for information.

He also had Helena Ravenclaw to thank. The ridiculous woman, who was the ghost of Ravenclaw house in death, had told him everything he had needed to know about the diadem, none the least of which was its identity in the first place. He had discovered the identity of Hufflepuff's heirloom through his work at Borgin and Burkes, and had given it for sakekeeping to Rodolphus Lestrange, the most loyal of his followers and one of the few he had actually attended Hogwarts with, after making it too into a Horcrux.

The diary had been given to Abraxas Malfoy, who was also quite loyal but was slowly dying from dragon pox, and he would give it to his son, Lucius, who was only a year old at the moment, when the time of his death came. Voldemort had already met Lucius. He had no patience for children, even less for infants, and was therefore surprised to see how well-behaved and respectful the young infant was toward him despite his young age. Yes, Lucius Malfoy would make a great and powerful follower when he came of age. Voldemort had the gift of being able to read children, to see what powers they possessed even when they had no access to said powers. Lucius certainly had a high power deep within him, one that would one day serve Lord Voldemort well.

He had placed the locket in a special location, a cave he had ventured into when he had lived in the orphanage, back before he had known he was a wizard. It was his first real taste of power when he had tormented Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop with what he now knew to be wandless Cruciatus curses – they had been mild, sure, compared to what he could now do, but they had been enough to torment the two Muggle children, who were now in adulthood and in asylums, having never quite recovered. He smirked as he recalled reading about this through the grapevine; Muggles were so pathetically weak. Yes, the locket had been placed in a worthy place, one that could not be found by normal wizards, and had a great and powerful poison protecting it, one that forced the drinker to relive his or her worst memories, much like a Dementor's presence. That was not the only protection, of course – there was also a lake filled with Inferi, so that any capable wizard would never be able to swim across or Summon it, and would have to find the vessel he had planted if they had any hope of crossing the lake.

Now the diadem would finally have a powerful defense around it as well. The curse placed on it would force upon the wearer great intelligence, in keeping with the idea of Rowena Ravenclaw, but also give the wearer an undeniable urge to kill and destroy. It would never come to that, of course, as he would have it hidden in a place where not even the Headmaster of Hogwarts would be able to find it: the secret room that only he knew about. It was ironic in a way: the very people who would one day fight back against him would be unknowingly protecting his very lifeline.

His ever-growing smirk became more pronounced at this thought. It would serve a great amount of significance in the years to come, when his rise to power became more pronounced.

The gates of Hogwarts were just ahead, and he waited patiently for them to open. With a faint click the chains retreated, allowing him access into the grounds. He wiped all emotion from his face as he entered the grounds of the first place he had ever thought of as a home. The orphanage had always been a terrible place, and he had been abroad for the last ten years, moving from place to place. Burning down the orphanage had been placating and definitely satisfying, but had ultimately changed nothing about his feelings toward the former building, especially considering it had been vacated at the time he had burned it to the ground.

He gently pushed open the doors and entered the entrance hall calmly, raking his dark eyes over the familiar setting before him. The Great Hall stood off to the right, its doors firmly shut though he knew it was the same as it had been during his graduation ceremony ten years before. The four hourglasses stood two each on either side of him, their stones signifying points all randomly assorted. It was the winter holidays, he recalled, and most of the students would be gone home to their families, though the stones did not change as the year had not ended. He briefly wondered if he would be running into any students that had opted to stay at Hogwarts. This in turn made him wonder if he would run into his old classmate as well, knowing that she was also applying for a position as a professor here, but he pushed that thought aside. He did not know if Minerva McGonagall was still trying to do so. It had been ten years since he had seen her, after all.

He pushed thoughts of his old acquaintance to the side. She had been the only person he had ever known to be something of a friend to him, and remembering her betrayal still stung a small bit.

Voldemort made his way up the staircase to the first floor, walking down the corridor to the next staircase, a shortcut that very few knew of. He was going to take care of business with hiding his Horcrux here first before he went to meet with Dumbledore. He was here early enough anyway; his appointment was not for another forty-five minutes.

He had soon reached and ascended the staircase, which led from first to sixth floor, and began his trek toward the closest staircase which would lead to the seventh floor corridors. He did not want to be anywhere near the filthy Gryffindor dorms, but he would do what he had to. The secret room that he knew of was quite close by there, but not so close that he had to be within close proximity.

Voldemort had soon reached the seventh floor corridors, and soon made his way to the barren wall that he knew concealed the secret room. Smirking a little, he walked by the spot three times, concentrating on what he required.

_Lord Voldemort needs the place to hide his special item . . . Lord Voldemort needs a place to hide his special item . . . Lord Voldemort needs the place to hide his special item . . ._

The door melted into existence in the middle of the wall, touching the floor seemlessly, and he quietly opened it to view what he had created, closing and locking it behind him.

It was a large room, easily the size of a large cathedral, and contained a large amount of objects of all kinds that Voldemort believed were there to make his Horcrux blend in perfectly. Few knew what the heirloom of Ravenclaw really was and so would not know what to look for, let alone how to find it within a vast array of items, some of which were heirlooms themselves. After walking among the isles of large walls of objects, he found a cabinet that had a stone bust of quite a repulsive-looking warlock. Smiling, he placed the tiara next to the bust, allowing it to blend in perfectly with the mismatched items around it. Then he turned around and walked out of the Room of Hidden Things, letting the door melt into stone behind him as he closed it.

His real task now completed, Voldemort turned on his heel and walked back toward the main staircase, the one that connected all seven floors together. It would not due to be discovered in an area he had no real business being in; it would arouse suspicion, and while Voldemort fully believed that he alone knew about the room, he was not quite sure about Dumbledore not having suspicions about it. He was, after all, the new Headmaster of the school. Then again, he knew nothing about the Chamber of Secrets . . .

"Tom?"

He bristled at the word, for more than one reason. Aside from the fact that he hated his name, he knew that voice all too well, though it had been a decade since he had last heard it.

"Minerva," he said quietly.

He turned as he said it, turned to face the young woman he had known so well as a student at Hogwarts. She did not look much different. Her black hair was perhaps a little longer though it was still done up in a bun as it always had been, a witch's hat perched atop it. Her robes were no different, and she was no taller. She was, however, far more beautiful than she had been so long ago.

"You look well," Voldemort commented lightly.

"I – so do you, I suppose," said Minerva McGonagall, her dark blue eyes focused on his face.

Voldemort frowned slightly. It was true that he looked far different to how he had looked when he had left the public eye ten years before. The vow he had took at his late father's home to never look like him as an adult had been made true, especially influenced by the creation of his Horcruxes, though he had gone through many other rituals to increase his magical power and bring himself a less humane look. His features were likely waxy and blurry compared to before, especially his now permanently bloodshot eyes.

"You've changed," McGonagall said bluntly.

"So I have," said Voldemort.

Silence followed these words. She stood ten feet away, simply staring at him.

"What are you doing here?" Voldemort asked curiously, breaking the silence first.

"I had an interview with Dumbledore," she replied, suddenly back to her usual stern voice. She was evidently over her surprise of him and his new exterior look.

He smiled a little, not sure how he felt about seeing her again. She had been a year ahead of him when they had attended Hogwarts but had stayed behind for one extra year to take an advanced Transfiguration course three times a week, so that she had graduated at the same time as himself. Voldemort had never had the patience for such petty things as friendship and this love feeling, but there could be no doubt that he had respected her when he had known her. They had met in his third year, when he had been struggling with the one class he could not understand, Transfiguration. Being an expert for her age at the branch of magic, she had helped him. She was a Gryffindor and he the Heir of Slytherin, and they had worked together. He still found it funny how it had worked out.

"You have been looking to become a professor here as well?" Voldemort asked calmly, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, I have. Dumbledore has left his post as professor of Transfiguration when he became the Headmaster. They have a replacement, but he is only temporary due to his condition. I will be notified as to when or if I will be needed."

Voldemort nodded, respecting McGonagall enough to know that she would likely make the position in later years, and do well enough in it.

"I heard you have changed your name," McGonagall continued, looking Voldemort right in the eye now as she spoke. "They call you 'Voldemort' now, do they not?"

"They do," Voldemort said, inclining his head curtly. "A more worthy name, I believe. Certainly better than the name I was given at birth." He would not say it. She knew what it was anyway.

"I never knew that you disliked your real given name," said McGonagall plainly, though he could hear the hint of curiosity as an undertone. "Why is that?"

Voldemort blinked, confused by the question. He shifted through his memories, trying to bring forth the one where he had told her about his past, but could not find it. He then remembered that he had never told her about it before, though he had likely attempted to at one point when they had worked together on their Transfiguration work.

"I . . . did not like my father much," Voldemort said with a touch of coolness in his voice. "I was named after him."

McGonagall nodded, knowing not to push further for explanation. It was not her business.

"I'm afraid I must cut this conversation short, Minerva," he said a minute later, walking toward her for the first time since they had begun speaking. "I must go and meet with Professor Dumbledore. I have an appointment with him concerning a position as a professor."

"Really? You wish to become a professor as well, Tom?" McGonagall asked, wide-eyed. "I never saw you as the teaching type."

"Nor did I, up until a few years ago," said Voldemort, a touch of irritation in his voice from her calling him by first name. "When I was abroad in Albania, the idea came to me as though from a dream. It was good to see you again, Minerva." He raised his hand, having never once been into embracing another person, female or not.

"It was good to see you too, Tom," said McGonagall, hesitating a little before taking his offered hand, the emotion clear in her eyes. He did not show any emotion at all as they shook once. "Perhaps we could catch up some time?"

"Perhaps," Voldemort replied, giving the idea little thought; he highly doubted Minerva McGonagall, who had greatly respected Albus Dumbledore while at Hogwarts, would care much for what he had done in the last decade. "We shall see in the near future, I suppose. Take care, Minerva."

"You as well," McGonagall said emotionally as Voldemort turned and walked away, his black travelling cloak billowing around his feet as he moved. Soon enough he had turned the corner and left her line of sight.

Try as he might, not even his expert Occlumency abilities could push McGonagall from his mind as he continued down the path toward the grand staircase. Seeing her again had shocked him; he had not been prepared for it. He had never thought of her as anything other than a partner for class assignments, as her intelligence had been on par with his and thus she had been an ideal classmate to work with, Gryffindor or not. He had never cared what his housemates had thought about him working with a Gryffindor; his status as the Heir of Slytherin, something that had been known only in his house, had brought him enough respect for anyone there to let it go. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had simply minded their business.

But now, ten years later, he had met her again. If he got the job as professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, it was more than likely, probably set in stone, that he would be working alongside her sometime soon. It shouldn't have mattered to him at all; he was Lord Voldemort, unneeding of petty things such as care and friendship. So why did McGonagall strike deep into him, more than any other human alive?

As he walked down the staircase between the fourth and fifth floors, his agitation over his lack of understanding manifested into his magic, causing the window he had been walking by to shatter, the cold winter air blowing against him, covering his shoulders with glistening snow. With little more than a thought, the window was repaired. He left the snow where it was; it added to the belief that he had no business in the castle other than the appointment with Dumbledore. Other than the fact that he had set up the appointment itself, Voldemort had told Dumbledore no real details, though he had brought up the request that he had made to Armando Dippet so many years before.

He had made it to the third floor corridor, in which he saw the stone gargoyle in its usual place in front of the door leading to the Headmaster's office. He made his way down the hall slowly, taking his time intentionally so that he could scope out what the password might be. With Armando Dippet, the passwords had always held some sort of significance to ancient Muggle artifacts and temples, but he highly doubted that Dumbledore made passwords of the same variety. Nonetheless, it was worth a try.

He stopped directly in front of the gargoyle and spoke clearly.

"Dropa Stone."

The gargoyle did not budge. He frowned slightly.

"Baghdad Battery?" he asked irritably.

Still no reply.

"Am I even close to the mark?" Voldemort asked the stone gargoyle angrily.

"Not even close," it replied smugly. "Try something that Dumbledore would go for, not Dippet."

Voldemort frowned again, this time in thought. He knew that the seventy-four year old man was partial to candies of both wizard and Muggle variety. While Voldemort knew little about such disgusting foods, he knew that there were large amounts of different kinds. He tried the first one he could think of, the one he remembered clearly from classes with Dumbledore.

"Lemon drop."

The gargoyle smirked at him and jumped aside, granting him entry.

_The man is killing himself more than any curse I could fire at him would do,_ Voldemort thought to himself with a slight smirk as he walked up the staircase leading to Dumbledore's office. He soon reached the door and knocked lightly.

"Enter," came the reply from inside.

He opened the door to the office and entered calmly, taking it in casually. Much had changed since Dippet had lived in it. Various silver instruments and objects littered different tables around it, obviously heirlooms and other items that he had created in his seventy years of living. Albus Dumbledore himself sat behind the Headmaster's desk, looking unsurprised by his entrance.

"Good evening, Tom," said Dumbledore easily. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you," said Voldemort, taking the seat that Dumbledore had offered him. He studied Dumbledore casually, as though without care. "I see that you have become Headmaster. A worthy choice."

"I am glad you approve," Dumbledore replied with a genuine smile, and Voldemort greatly resisted the urge to roll his eyes, something he had done only once before. "May I offer you a drink?"

A drink . . . that was certainly not something he had had only once before, he reflected with an inward smirk.

"That would be welcome. I have come a long way."

Dumbledore rose from his seat and moved toward a cabinet near his desk that, Voldemort noticed when he opened it, was filled with bottles of various drinks, amongst them wine and Butterbeer. He took one, poured a gobletful for him and then for himself, and returned to his seat.

"So, Tom . . ." Dumbledore finally began, staring at Voldemort over his half-moon spectacles, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Voldemort took a gulp from his goblet, inwardly irritated at being called by name.

"They do not call me "Tom" any more," he said casually, not letting his irritation pass through his voice; it would be discourteous of him. "These days, I am known as –"

"I know what you are known as," Dumbledore said, cutting him off with a smile. "But to me, I'm afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about old teachers, I am afraid, that they never quite forget their young charges' youthful beginnings."

Voldemort made sure to keep his face clean of all emotion as Dumbledore toasted him by raising his goblet slightly; inside, he was raging. He was no fool: he knew that by choosing not to call him by the name he had chosen, Dumbledore was making sure he could not allow the meeting to go in his favor. All the while, he kept his face pleasant and smiling.

Knowing that nothing else could be done about it as this was also the man he was requesting the position of professor from, Voldemort disregarded it for the moment, choosing another tactic.

"I am surprised you have remained here so long," he commented a short while later, as though discussing the weather. "I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school."

"Well, to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young minds."

Dumbledore was still smiling that infuriating smile, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.

"If I remember correctly," he continued, "you once saw the attraction of teaching, too."

"I see it still," said Voldemort quietly, seeing an opening. "I merely wondered why you – who is so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who has twice, I think, been offered the post of Minister –"

"Three times at the last count, actually," Dumbledore said, cutting him off for the second time. He was still smiling pleasantly. "But the Ministry never attracted me as a job. Again, something we have in common, I think."

Voldemort merely nodded, still outwardly wiped of emotion. He took a sip of his wine, allowing the silence to play out for a little while. Dumbledore, for his part, made no move to interrupt it, and Voldemort knew that he would have to make the first move eventually.

"I have returned," he said finally after a few minutes had passed, "later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected . . . but I have returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once told me I was too young to have." He chose his words carefully. "I have come to you to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must know that I have seen and done much since I have left this place. I could show and tell your students things they could gain from no other wizard."

Dumbledore took a sip of his goblet as he pondered the request.

"Yes," he said after a few moments, "I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving us. Rumours of your doings have reached your old school, Tom." He added quietly, "I should be sorry to believe half of them."

Voldemort did not let any emotion cross his face as he replied.

"Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore."

"You call it "greatness", what you have been doing, do you?"

"Certainly," Voldemort said with a touch of pride in his voice, though Dumbledore did not notice. "I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed –"

"Of some kinds of magic," Dumbledore interrupted for the third time, as though correcting a mistake. His eyes no longer twinkled at all. "Of some. Of others, you remain . . . forgive me . . . woefully ignorant."

To the surprise of both wizards, Voldemort smiled rather than show offense. It did not look much better than a scowl; it was much like a leer.

"The old argument," he said in a soft, quiet tone. It still sickened him that Dumbledore parroted this belief. "But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore looked pleasantly calm as he suggested, "Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places."

Voldemort seized his next opening greedily.

"Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts? Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command."

For a brief moment Voldemort actually believed that he had Dumbledore convinced. But then . . .

"And what will become of those whom _you_ command? What will become of those who call themselves – or so rumour has it – the Death Eaters?"

Voldemort was stunned, the red in his eyes flashing at this. How did Dumbledore know? He had never thought that his work would have reached the ears of those this far away.

"My friends will carry on without me, I am sure," he said finally, looking for a way around this gap, but he knew Dumbledore would have none of it.

"I am glad to hear that you consider them friends," Dumbledore remarked, and though there was no trace of sarcasm, Voldemort knew Dumbledore was having him on. "I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants."

"You are mistaken," said Voldemort, still trying to get around this part of the conversation.

"Then if I were to go to the Hog's Head tonight, I would not find a group of them – Nott, Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov – awaiting your return?" For a brief moment, Voldemort thought he actually saw a smirk cross Dumbledore's face, but it looked blank a moment later as he said, "Devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post."

In all honesty, that was precisely what his four Death Eaters _had_ come to do, and Voldemort felt secured in this knowledge as he replied at once.

"You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore," he replied with a touch of coolness.

"Oh, no, merely friendly with the local barmen."

Voldemort raised a brow at this but did not comment. Dumbledore set down his glass and put the tips of his fingers together, staring at him over them.

"Now, Tom, let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?"

Voldemort sat up straighter in his seat, surprised and a little angered at this.

"A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much."

It was no lie; he actually did want the job, and somehow he knew that Dumbledore also knew this.

"Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not want to teach any more than you did when you were eighteen." Dumbledore was giving him a stern look now. "What is it you're after, Tom? Why not try an open request for once.

For one fleeting moment, Voldemort wondered if Dumbledore had finally suspected exactly what he had done earlier in the castle. He dismissed this idea; it was impossible for Dumbledore to know. He sneered as he replied, "If you do not want to give me a job –"

"Of course I don't," Dumbledore said, cutting across him for a fourth time; the interruptions were getting more frequent, something Voldemort did not like. "And I don't think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose."

Voldemort could no longer hide the anger from his face no matter how hard he tried. He got to his feet, hoping to Salazar it would bring him patience. It did not.

"This is your final word?"

Dumbledore was on his feet now as well.

"It is."

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other."

"No, nothing."

Dumbledore actually looked a little depressed now, to Voldemort's cold surprise.

"The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayments for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom . . . I wish I could . . ."

Again, Voldemort felt for a moment to act on an impulse; his hand brushed the pocket his wand lay in. The moment passed, and Voldemort turned and walked away, shutting the door behind him. It was only after he passed the stone gargoyle, which leaped back into place after him, that he thought about the meeting.

He was no fool, he had expected to be turned down. That did nothing to placate him. He had rather wanted that job, had wanted to pass his talents onto children so that he could form future followers. Now it was impossible. In his anger, Voldemort took hold of his wand and began muttering a long curse, his eyes gazing down the hall toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts department as he whispered. A solid black light began to surround it, slowly encasing the entire area, and then stopped abruptly upon finishing. He smiled a little as he walked down the stairs of the entrance hall and exited the castle. That would prevent any future professors for the subject from staying long.

As he walked through the gates of Hogwarts one last time and began his trek down the long path to Hogsmeade, he pushed the thoughts away and began plotting his next destination. He was done with Albania, having found the Hogwarts heirloom hidden there. Using the Gryffindor heirloom, the sword, was no longer possible. He already had the other three. He would have to halt his creations of Horcruxes for the time being, until such a time came that he would find another powerful object, perhaps one descended from Merlin's ancient royal family . . .

He had reached the Hog's Head in no time at all and walked inside, ignoring the barman who, oddly, had a smug look underneath his dirty hair. Nott, Rosier, Mulciber and Dolohov all sat in the corner, talking quietly over a round of Firewhisky. He quietly walked up to them, his presence unnoticed until he had come to stand beside them. They hurriedly bowed in their seats.

"My – my Lord, how did it go?" Nott hurriedly asked.

Voldemort stared at Nott as though he could throttle the man without physical move.

"As expected," he said calmly, "Dumbledore refused the job to me. However, I did manage to complete my other task."

The four Death Eaters nodded, knowing not to speak.

"Do what you will for the moment," Voldemort muttered. "I wish to be alone, so if you'll excuse me . . ."

He walked away, lost in thoughts revolved around McGonagall and Dumbledore and his Horcrux, and did something that he had never expected himself to do in all his life.

"Give me a shot of Firewhisky," he muttered to the barman.

Five minutes later, over a mile away in the confines of the Headmaster's office of Hogwarts castle, Albus Dumbledore smirked gleefully.


End file.
